“You have your friend to thank for that,” said his companion, with the sense that now at last a topic had been found on which it would be safe to speak. “My--what?” cried John, sitting suddenly upright in his bed. “Your--friend,--the gentleman who was with you. Good God! this is the worst of all,” cried poor Whichelo, driven to his wits' end. And, indeed, for a minute John’s expression was that of a demon. He had some cuts on his forehead, which were covered with plaster; he was excessively pale; one of his arms was bandaged up; and when you have added to all these not beautifying circumstances the dim light thrown upon the bed under its shabby curtains, and the look of horror, dismay, and rage which passed over the unhappy young fellow’s face, poor Mr Whichelo’s consternation may be understood. “My--friend!” he repeated, with a groan. He could not himself have given any reason for it; but it seemed at the moment to be the last and finishing blow. “Yes,” said Mr Whichelo, “so they told me. He found you lying in the passage with the engines playing upon you, and dragged you out. It was very lucky for you he was there.” John fell back in his bed with a look of utter weariness and lassitude. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But is anybody such a fool as to think that I should have died with the engines playing on me? Nonsense! He need not have been so confoundedly officious: but it don’t matter, I tell you,” he added, angrily; “don’t let us speak of it any more.” “My dear Mr Mitford,” said Mr Whichelo, “I don’t wish to interfere; but I am the father of a family myself, with grown-up sons, and I don’t like to see a young man give way to wrong feeling. The gentleman did a most friendly action. I don’t know, I am sure, if you would have died--but--he meant well, there can be no doubt of that.” “Confound him!” said John between his closed teeth. Mr Whichelo was glad he could not quite hear what it was; perhaps, however, he expected something worse than “confound him”--for a sense of horror crept over him, and he was very thankful that he had no closer interest in this impatient young man than mere acquaintanceship--a man who was going in for the Church! he said to himself. He sat silent for a little, and then got up and took his hat. “I hear you have to be kept very quiet,” he said; “and as it is late, I will take my leave. Good evening, Mr Mitford; I hope you will have a good night; and if I can be of any use----” “Good-night,” said John, too much worn to be able to think of politeness. And when Mr Whichelo was gone the doctor came, who gave him a great deal of suffering by way of relieving him. He bore it all in silence, having plenty of distraction afforded him by his thoughts, which were bitter enough. “Doctor,” he said, sitting up all at once while his injured arm was being bandaged, “answer me one question: I hear I was found lying somewhere with the engines playing on me; could I have died like that?”